Begs more suspense. I think I'll get there.
I remember when I was a boy
in first grade in PS 125,
Amsterdam and Morningside Drive,
uptown, I would see them
shooting the street, running
across four lanes in busy traffic,
dodging cars to see if they could
make it across without being hit.
They were hit sometimes and I
would see them laying broken
waiting for ambulance. They
would have this peaceful look
on their face going into shock.
There would be comforting
conversation from a gathering
of observers in an uncomfortable
city.
We moved away from New York
to a comfortable city with quiet
streets, big houses, clean air,
smiles, the streets seemed so easy
to shoot. There was a hill
with a hidden driveway that
ran into the main road which
could be busy sometimes
with a car or two that would
drive quite fast. I liked to
ride my bicycle very fast
down this road. The kids
would be impressed with the
speed with which I rode.
Of course I was from
New York City where people
were fast and furious and
New York was in by blood.
Days and months passed
and I contemplated the
hidden driveway with increasing
tension as I was coming to know
that my turn had come
to shoot the street.
It seemed an easy New York
thing, beating easy odds --
shooting this street -- just
something to do just once
-- to dance a New York dance
with the Devil. The hidden
driveway joined a road on
the other side of the busy
road as an intersection
so it was a matter
of shooting straight through
in a few seconds to clear
safety.
It was a clear
quiet day that I found
myself on my bicycle
at the top of the hidden
driveway choosing my moment
for a deed that needed doing.
I listened for cars. I should
after all make my run
without hearing cars.
A fool would do otherwise.
But cars were quiet
in this part of the country.
I chose the exact moment in
the solitude of silence
and suddenly the wheels
were turning and the wind
rushed in my ears. I realized
I could still stop but
at the point of no return
I was seized with a macabre
commitment that was in
my blood. I saw peace
on the face of a broken man.
We yearn for peace in this life
-- the lifting of a burden --
we crave this as those who run
with the bulls in Pamplona.
I was fast into the busy
cross street, flying out like
a dumb deer oblivious of
imminent death.
I heard the feral shriek of
skidding tires, the impact of
hot wind. I saw the terrified
face of our neighbor behind
the steering wheel. Half
a second to clear space.
I shot the street untouched
as a New Yorker and instantly
everything became as they
say, history.
Poetry by Peter J. Kautsky
Read 671 times
Written on 2008-11-25 at 02:17
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Shooting the Street
There was a sport in New York CityI remember when I was a boy
in first grade in PS 125,
Amsterdam and Morningside Drive,
uptown, I would see them
shooting the street, running
across four lanes in busy traffic,
dodging cars to see if they could
make it across without being hit.
They were hit sometimes and I
would see them laying broken
waiting for ambulance. They
would have this peaceful look
on their face going into shock.
There would be comforting
conversation from a gathering
of observers in an uncomfortable
city.
We moved away from New York
to a comfortable city with quiet
streets, big houses, clean air,
smiles, the streets seemed so easy
to shoot. There was a hill
with a hidden driveway that
ran into the main road which
could be busy sometimes
with a car or two that would
drive quite fast. I liked to
ride my bicycle very fast
down this road. The kids
would be impressed with the
speed with which I rode.
Of course I was from
New York City where people
were fast and furious and
New York was in by blood.
Days and months passed
and I contemplated the
hidden driveway with increasing
tension as I was coming to know
that my turn had come
to shoot the street.
It seemed an easy New York
thing, beating easy odds --
shooting this street -- just
something to do just once
-- to dance a New York dance
with the Devil. The hidden
driveway joined a road on
the other side of the busy
road as an intersection
so it was a matter
of shooting straight through
in a few seconds to clear
safety.
It was a clear
quiet day that I found
myself on my bicycle
at the top of the hidden
driveway choosing my moment
for a deed that needed doing.
I listened for cars. I should
after all make my run
without hearing cars.
A fool would do otherwise.
But cars were quiet
in this part of the country.
I chose the exact moment in
the solitude of silence
and suddenly the wheels
were turning and the wind
rushed in my ears. I realized
I could still stop but
at the point of no return
I was seized with a macabre
commitment that was in
my blood. I saw peace
on the face of a broken man.
We yearn for peace in this life
-- the lifting of a burden --
we crave this as those who run
with the bulls in Pamplona.
I was fast into the busy
cross street, flying out like
a dumb deer oblivious of
imminent death.
I heard the feral shriek of
skidding tires, the impact of
hot wind. I saw the terrified
face of our neighbor behind
the steering wheel. Half
a second to clear space.
I shot the street untouched
as a New Yorker and instantly
everything became as they
say, history.
Poetry by Peter J. Kautsky
Read 671 times
Written on 2008-11-25 at 02:17
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text|
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